It's been a long time since anyone cared about Penthouse magazine, so word today that its new owner is trying like the devil to revive its nearly lifeless body did not exactly get me excited.
Still, when I read that the publisher plans to kill off all those raunchy ads that clutter the back of the magazine, while at the same time beefing up coverage of music, sports, and gadgets, I experienced three nearly simultaneous sensations (none of which, sorry to report, were sexually gratifying):
1. A feathery shudder down my spine (which I interpreted as profound professional disappointment that the edit team at Penthouse had failed to define a fresh niche for itself, and had opted instead to follow the too-familiar formula of every other lad mag)
2. An uncomfortable stabbing pain down both forearms (a sense of loss, to my way of thinking, over all those beckoning back-of-book adverts for "Nasty Sluts," "Queens of Kink," and "Dark & Juicy" coeds), and
3. A deep throbbing in my head, in the area of my temples (which to me could only mean "the end is near" -- that is, Penthouse now has no chance of survival, none whatsover; it is going swiftly into that damp and sticky night).
Why would I bemaon the inevitable (some would argue welcome) loss of a low-rent lad rag that's demeaned women for decades?
Mainly because I'm saddened every time a magazine fails, particularly one that's had a long -- if, in this case, unenviable -- history. The magazine business has been through terrible times these last few years. Each additional failure must be grieved.
Penthouse was born to compete with Playboy, which, for a time, it did with some verve. No one I know ever really enjoyed working there, especially under the editorship of Bob Guccione Jr., who had a bad habit of bullying his employees. I have no tolerance for those who humiliate others, particularly in public. But that's sort of beside the point.
The point is that Penthouse had only one thing going for it -- explicit pictures of naked women. And their various body parts. Sometimes the photos were taken at such uncomfortably close proximity that it was impossible to tell if we were viewing actual human anatomy, but I'm sure we were.
While every once in a while a decent writer would show up in Penthouse, which I could never quite fathom, if it weren't for the T&A (and parts in their general vicinity), Penthouse would have expired during the Reagan Administration.
An hour ago, after reading the piece in today's New York Post, I drove to my local newsstand and spent $7.99 (!) on the June issue of Penthouse. I know, I know -- you figured me for a regular reader, probably a subscriber. Truth is, like millions of others, I haven't looked at the book in years.
The latest ish features a litany of lame sell lines: 'HOTTER, FASTER, MORE!,' 'LOUD, LEWD, AND UNCENSORED' (about satellite radio), and 'GET YOUR GIRL TO LOVE PORN.'
Pretty crappy, if you ask me. This isn't going to help save Penthouse. And the girl on the cover -- I swear I have no idea who she is. Nor is she identified in any way. Just a generic blue-eyed lovely, I take it.
Not good enough.
In a marketplace that now boasts Maxim, Stuff, FHM, Razor, and a dozen other guy titles -- crotch-centric mags, to be sure, but all more smartly turned out than Penthouse -- the scribbling is on the back-alley wall.
A feckless and embarrassingly imitative Penthouse is slipping rapidly into oblivion.
And, tellingly, very few souls will shed a tear.
.....
Meanwhile, as one magazine is in its death throes, others are being born nearly every day. The life cycle never stops.
Let me take this opportunity to mention two new books that I really like. Both, aptly, are for women readers.
Breathe has been around for a few months. The latest beautiful issue features a b&w portrait of Susan Sarandon on its cover. It's a little hard to explain Breathe (its tag line is "inhale life"), which you might think a liability, but clearly it's going after midlife women who seek a more meaningful inner life, a spiritual life, a life inspired by a sort of Eastern energy. It is edited with admirable attention to thoughts rather than things, and I greatly respect that. There does appear to be a positive trend in women's magazines nationally: more and more of them are placing greater emphasis on the value of personal serenity.
Violet is even harder to describe, maybe because it comes out of Southern California, which itself is rather inscrutable. It's an over-size monthly that, indecisively, carries two tag lines: "Modern family living" and "You've grown up but you haven't grown old." Patricia Arquette is on the cover of the spring issue. Like so many magazines that are published in L.A., this one is a bit all over the map, but mainly it supports the notion that, as a young woman, you don't need to emulate the lifestyle of Britney Spears. There's a better way. You can be a hip, progressive mom and hold actual ideas in your head at the same time. Amazing.
Always nice to welcome new magazines into the world. Good luck, kids!
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